


(You Were) The Song Stuck In My Head

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, FSA Week, Getting Together, Nonbinary Character, Other, Punk Derek Hale, Record store au, nonbinary Scott McCall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disgruntled and jaded punk falls for a pretty smile. Send Help.</p>
<p>Or: the Record Store AU where Derek has a crush on Scott and everyone knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(You Were) The Song Stuck In My Head

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Scerek Anon, who guarantees the writers of the targeted rarepairs views and comments! Thank you for your relentless and obsessive attention!

The thing about Scott is that Derek doesn’t get him. Well, Derek gets Scott, Derek just doesn’t get why he’s _attracted_ to Scott. Not that Scott isn’t _attractive_ , because Scott is very attractive. Honestly, with his deep brown eyes, smooth tan skin, thick wavy hair, and dimples, what’s not to like? 

Derek just usually has a _type_ when it comes to guys. He’s like them big and stacked, guys who can give him a run for his money in the muscle department. Guys with big biceps and big hands and thick thighs; guys like Boyd, who was large enough to pick Derek up and slam him into a wall when things got feisty. 

Scott is definitely not like that. Scott has lean muscles and coy smiles, carefully chosen words, a ‘speak softly’ type of person. Scott wears soft off-the-shoulder shirts, nail polish, and, sometimes, mascara that makes his incredibly thick eyelashes a mile long. Not that Derek is complaining, because Scott is nice to look at, but Scott isn’t Derek’s _type_. Not really. 

Derek’s type is usually dirty and punky, the type to get bloody at show; cut offs and leather jackets, studs drilled into Doc Martens, mohawks. _Derek_ is Derek’s type. Scott isn’t punky, not really. He’s punk- _ish_. He’s got a gold septum ring and his ears gauged, a couple of hoops in his cartilage. There’s a thick streak of pink in his bangs that fades every week or so; hot pink to pale pink to blonde-stained-pink. He rides a graffitied longboard everywhere, buys vinyls like they’re going out of style. He’s soft punk, floral punk, punk in-a-fuzzy-sweater.

Despite all of that, Derek wants to date Scott more than anything. 

It’s ridiculous. Whenever he sees Scott, his insides tangle up in anticipation, skin prickling as his nerves stand on end. He has to force himself to wear a neutral expression around Scott, or he would just grin ridiculously at him, unable to contain himself. Scott is an infectious force of happiness, laughter follows on his heels. 

He’s in the record shop at least four times a week; coming in when he’s on break from his job at the coffee shop in the same strip mall. He lingers in between the CD racks, shifts through the record sleeves, checks out all the new shirts; he walks his nimble fingers along everything, always touching like it’s the way he processes information. He grabs up the second-hand guitars and plays quietly, mouth moving along to whatever song he’s got stuck in his head. 

Derek tries not to watch him, distracts himself with stocking or inventory or counting the register drawer until he can’t keep track of the numbers, but it’s no good. It’s not like they’re very busy, especially on weekdays when Scott likes to come in. More often than not, Derek finds himself focused on the way Scott’s shoulders stretch under his shirt, the way his hair curls at his nape sweetly. 

Sometimes, Scott talks to him. 

Most times Scott talks to him, actually. It’s like he can’t _stop_ talking to Derek. Not that Derek minds, but most people don’t take his short answers in stride. Most people get offended when he grunts at them when he’s tired or feeling particularly introverted, but Scott just nods along, half-smiling at everything. 

It’s not like he’s a chatterbox, either, not like his friend Stiles, but he’s always saying _something_. At least one thing in greeting, or passing. He asks about Derek’s day, or makes a mention of the weather, talks about the new skate deck he’s lusting after. It’s the smallest thing, but he keeps trying to coax Derek into conversation. The worst part is that it works. A lot. More than Derek is willing to admit to anyone but himself. 

It’s like Scott knows what to talk about to get Derek to chime in. He’s so well versed in music that he can keep up with a genre-talk with Derek, even if it’s 70’s punk rock or 80’s hair metal or where and when EDM gained popularity in music. If he _doesn’t_ know, he always asks Derek for more information. He wants to know, wants to learn. 

Derek loves it. 

“Have you asked out the pretty one yet?” Cora asks, with a snap of her gum, hip leaning against the counter. Today, Scott dragged along Stiles and Stiles’ girlfriend, Malia. They’re with Scott enough that Derek knows their names, knows that they’re all close. Malia is hanging around the guitar straps, fingers lingering over one with a psychedelic pattern, while Scott and Stiles coo over the new vinyls Derek ordered. 

(They all used to think Scott and Stiles were together, at first. They’re tactile, excited, attached at the hip, but they aren’t. Scott ended up breaking a string on one of the acoustics, and Stiles carried the guitar over, looking sheepish. 

“I’ll replace it this one time,” Cora told him, eyes flicking back to Scott who was blushing and trying not to look too scared of her. “But next time, tell your boyfriend he has to pay for it.”

“He’s not a boy,” Stiles said, with a vicious roll of his eyes, at the same time, Scott said, softer,

“I’m, uh, not a boy,” and hit Stiles in the shoulder. 

“Not a boy, huh?” Cora asked, eyes dragging all over Scott like that would help her figure it out. He was dressed in a soft lavender shirt that extended to mid-thigh, a pair of leggings with galaxies all over them, and clunky black boots. It definitely wasn’t _masculine_ , but Derek always assumed he just preferred to dress femme, considering Stiles always used male pronouns.

“Yeah, more in between,” Scott said, with an easy smile. He probably had to explain to most people he met, who assumed his gender. “Not-quite boy, not-quite girl.”

“We call him a floral bro,” Stiles said, hooking his arm over Scott’s shoulder, and drawing him in for a half-hug.

“Okay, sorry, tell your significant other that next time, he’s paying,” Cora said, sliding the guitar back over the counter. Stiles scoffed at her, grabbing it to play a few clumsy, unpracticed chords. 

“We’re not together,” Scott said.

“Full of assumptions today, Cora,” Stiles chastised, and they laughed, going back to the instruments while something that felt like _hope_ blossomed in Derek’s chest.)

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Derek says, purposefully not looking at Scott. Cora rolls her eyes at him pointedly.

“Sure you don’t,” she says. “Just like you don’t know why we’re suddenly stocked with pop punk 12” either, even though Laura just told you about cutting out records from everything but online ordering last month.”

“What’s the point of a record store without records?” Derek argues, for the thousandth time. Scott definitely isn’t the reason he’s pushing for _this_ particularly. Okay, not the _only_ reason. They should keep vinyl in-stock all the time, and not just the new stuff that people have been rolling out with the revival of vinyl appreciation, but older stuff as well. 

“Damn right,” Scott says, coming up to the counter with a stack of them. Derek flushes, schooling his face into a neutral expression. Stiles arches his eyebrows. 

“We appreciate you keeping the tradition alive,” he says, banging out a rhythm on the counter with his long fingers. His eyes dart between Derek and Scott, mouth curled mischievously at the corner. “It’s imperative for Scott to keep his addiction sated. A new record every week.”

“Or five,” Scott says, paying for the vinyl with a wad of crumpled bulls. The smile he shoots Derek is private, all dimples, and _flirty_ , maybe. Derek can’t really tell, so instead of responding with a smile of his own, he hands Scott his change and grunts at him to have a good day. 

Stiles’ eyebrows pop up indignantly, but Scott jerks his head towards the door, dipping his chin towards Derek and Cora as a goodbye. 

“You need to work on your flirting,” Cora says, the minute they drag Malia out the door. Derek flips her off instead of retorting. He knows he does, but -- “Oh my god, does he make you nervous?”

“Cora.”

“Does he give you butterflies?” she asks, teasing, but she’s _right_. “Oh my god, he _does_. This is the best thing I’ve ever heard. A 26 year old punk rocker with butterflies.” 

Derek throws a magazine at her head as she laughs at him. 

Scott does make him nervous. He’s young and fresh, and Derek knows he’s not old, but sometimes he feels like it; feels the cracks in him, knows all the ways that he’s jaded. 26 years young, college dropout, recovering alcoholic. There’s three thick black ‘x’s tattooed on the outside of his arm for a reason: _straight edge_. Mostly to warn people away from asking questions. He’s never been involved in the hyper-masculine straight edge punk scene, but it’s useful when people think he has been. People don’t ask questions if they think you’ll break their face if they step over any lines or insult you. 

Scott is definitely not straight edge. He comes in smelling like skunky weed, eyes heavy lidded. Those are the days he smiles the most, and giggles too much. The laughing always makes Derek’s stomach fizzle, heart pounding. He loves the way it sounds, carefree and happy. 

Maybe that’s what’s stopping Derek. They’re too different, coming from opposite directions. Scott isn’t Derek’s type; not in appearance and not with the way he acts, the things that he does. The only thing they seem to have in common is music. 

Of course, a traitorous part of his mind whispers, that’s all that they _need_ to have in common. Derek lives and breathes music. Scott is the same way, smiling at him around stacks of records, asking about new CDs that have come out. When a good song comes on he always pauses to listen, head cocked to the side. Sometimes his eyes flutter shut, sometimes he mouths along. Derek knows he feels music just as deeply as Derek does, and that’s _something_. 

More than their differences, probably. 

The next time Scott comes in, he’s alone, with a guitar strapped to his back and another smile for Derek. The shirt he’s wearing is a cut off with arms so deep, Derek can see the skin of his ribs and hips, the way his muscles articulate when he turns. It’s pink and white floral, with a giant ‘11’ printed on the front. Derek wants to peel it off of him, put his mouth on Scott’s skin. 

“I need strings,” Scott says, hands dancing on the counter tap, little curious taps. His hands are nice, square, trimmed nails painted pale pink. Derek watches him curiously, waiting. “Medium weight?”

“Do you want me to restring your guitar?” Derek asks, as he pulls out the strings. It’s not something he offers to anyone, only if they ask, but he wants to give Scott an excuse to stay. 

“Please do,” Scott says, unstrapping the guitar and laying it out on the counter. “I hate doing it.”

Derek’s quick about it, years of practice, sliding and twisting and securing the strings before tuning them by ear so that they’re a close match to what they should be. Scott watches him while he works, so intently that Derek can feel it as his head is bent to watch what he’s doing, afraid to fumble under Scott’s scrutiny.

When he hands the guitar over, Scott’s smile is so blinding that Derek can’t stop himself from blurting out, “Will you go on a date with me?”

He would immediately regret it, but Scott smiles wider than he ever has, pleased. 

“Of course,” he says, exhaling heavily. “Fuck, I was hoping you would ask or I was going to have to get the balls to do it myself. I didn’t know if you liked guys, but I was willing to get my ass beat finding out.” Derek winces, because he knows. The only thing you can stereotype him as is _intimidating_ most of the time, all wrapped in leather and studs and facial piercings. 

“I do,” Derek says, slowly. He didn’t really think of that, just assumed that since Scott wore a lot of flowers that he’d be into guys. At least it’s not a completely baseless assumption. “I just figured with the…”

“Whole femme thing?” Scott asks, gesturing to himself with a sly smile. Derek shrugs uncomfortably, unsure if it’s better to confirm or deny. Scott watches him intently for a moment before he brightens again. “What did you have in mind?”

“A show,” Derek blurts, because he’s been thinking about it for weeks, debating asking Scott to go with him. “My friends have a show on Thursday. It’s at the Clubhouse, it should be fun.”

“Please don’t tell me that your friend’s band is, or is affiliated with, Moonlight Raid,” Scott says, blinking wide eyes at Derek. “They’re playing at the Clubhouse on Thursday, and I might already have tickets because I love them so fucking much.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you that I know Moonlight Raid personally, then,” Derek says, huffing out a laugh. He’s not exactly surprised that Scott knows who they are, he’s heard him squawking about local bands enough that the _absence_ of their name up until now has been surprising. 

“Oh my god, that’s so great,” Scott says, leaning forward on the counter, closer to Derek. Derek can’t help the way he leans forward as well, grinning slightly. Scott smells sweet like cucumber melon body spray. Derek wants to bury his face in his neck and lick him all over. “How the hell do you know them?”

“I went to school with all three of them,” Derek says, with a shrug. Erica was the type of girl that everyone ignored until she opened her mouth to sing. Isaac was the kid that dragged his ratty guitar around with him everywhere, who barely ate lunch because he was too busy writing songs out on the lawn. Boyd had taken percussion since 5th grade, and was in marching band, until they all struck out together and formed a band. 

They won the school’s Battle of the Bands both junior and senior year, already playing shows at dingy clubs and bars that would let them. After they graduated, they started hanging out at the shop with Derek, borrowing instruments for recording, playing their demos over the speaker system for him. They’ve did a small states tour in an old white van, now they were finally back where they started. 

“Does that mean you can get me backstage?” Scott asks, wiggling his eyebrows. Derek chuckles, unable to help himself. He wants to drag Scott over the counter and kiss him. 

“Maybe if you behave.”

“No promises,” Scott says, and winks. Derek flushes in response, body going hot all over at the simple gesture. He’s so gone already, and it didn’t take any effort on Scott’s part. 

 

 

Thursday dawns with a burst of nerves in Derek’s stomach that make him irritable all day. Not that he wants to be grumpy, but he has no idea what to do with himself as anticipation sizzles under the surface of his skin. Cora comes in around noon and tries to chase him out, but he refuses to leave. If he’s not working, then he’s _thinking_ and if he’s thinking, then he’s even more nervous about tonight. 

“It’ll be fine,” she says, after she’s given up trying to get him to leave the store and directed him to cleaning instruments instead. He gets through a couple guitars before he decides to restring them all. It’s methodical, keeps him occupied while his mind whirls so fast his thoughts dissolve into white noise. 

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a date,” Derek says, gruffly. Cora scrunches up her nose in disapproval.

“That’s a flimsy excuse. You know how to _socialize_ , don’t you?”

“Barely,” he mutters. Cora raises an eyebrow at him skeptically, but her eyes soften. 

“It’ll be fine,” she says, again. Derek's amazed that she manages to keep any hint of exasperation out of her tone. “Obviously, he likes you. When you’re not in the store, he asks about you all the time. Stiles can’t stop teasing him about, which means he probably talks about you _outside_ of the store. He’s in here all the time, just. Stop freaking out.”

“That’s impossible,” Derek mumbles, but his insides go warm and fuzzy at the information. Not that he can _prove_ Scott talks about him to Stiles in regular conversation, but the fact that he’s asked Cora about Derek is enough. 

It’s enough that Scott even wants to go on a _date_ with him, if he’s being honest with himself. Derek doesn’t think he’s undesirable, but he knows that it takes a certain kind of person to deal with his roughness. It’s no secret that he’s callous, but Scott doesn’t seem to care, if he notices at all. 

Sometimes, Derek feels like Scott can see past all of that. When people get to know Derek, they know that he’s just grumpy on the outside, that he likes a good book and a cup of hot chocolate, that he’s a secret romantic that likes thick sweaters in the winter. Unfortunately for him, his resting bitch face has never _conveyed_ that. 

It takes a special kind of person to invest Derek enough to get the squishier parts. Apparently, it’s worth it, but most people don’t try for that. Derek’s always been content to sit back and let things run their course, so if people don’t exert the effort to get to know him, Derek doesn’t bother. Of course, with _Scott_ , it’s different. He wants to be good enough that Scott stays interested. 

He knows that’s not the ideal way of going about a relationship, but he thinks it’s okay to be nervous, to have aspirations and goals, to want something out of interactions with other people. If self-improvement is one of those goals, Derek can’t say that’s a _bad thing_. Usually the road to self-improvement is paved with self-acceptance, anyway. 

There’s a part of him that wants to take it all back, wants to cancel. He doesn’t want this thing with Scott to crash and burn, he wants it to work out, and that's terrifying. More terrifying than he wants to admit, but the only way to find out if it _does_ is to go through with it. So, he swallows his fears, and plasters on a smile when Scott comes through the doors at a quarter past 5PM. 

He looks amazing in tight floral patterned pants and matte, maroon Doc Martens. His shirt is another cut off, but black this time; it makes his eyes look impossibly dark, drowning Derek in their depths. 

“Less pastel than usual,” Derek teases, for lack of anything better to say. 

“Just in case there’s blood,” Scott says, with a laugh. “I hope you don’t mind, Stiles and Malia caught a ride.”

“I don’t mind,” Derek says. It’s actually a relief, almost like a buffer. As much as Derek is craving alone time with Scott, the idea of making small talk has made him undeniably nervous. With the others around, it won’t be as forced. 

Of course, there’s the chance that Stiles will chatter the whole time, but when they get in the car, the conversation is sparse; they listen to Moonlight Raid on the way, and Derek is pleased to discover all three of them know the lyrics as well as he does. 

"I played the solo on this track," Derek says, when Red Eyed Boy opens. Stiles squeaks, hitting Derek in the shoulder.

"Bull _shit_ ," he says, head bobbing along to the music. He's practically vibrating in place, and Derek gets it, nerves making him just as restless; he's far better at controlling his outward appearance, though. 

"Isaac had to go up north with family while they were finalizing the LP," Derek says. "I was helping Erica layer tracks, and I accidentally deleted a few of his recordings."

Derek thought Erica’s head was going to explode, she was so pissed off at him. He's surprised she didn't start breaking things, but after she was done screeching at him, she got on the phone with Isaac. There was no way for him to record anything where he was at, and Erica had no desire to put push the deadline for the LP.

"She just shoved a guitar in my hand, and demanded that I do it. I had to improvise most of it because Isaac hadn't written it down."

"Is that why the solo changes every time they play live?" Scott asks, grinning wide and pretty. Derek's insides go mushy at the smile, and the fact that Scott even _noticed_ that.

"Yeah, he got pretty close to matching it by ear, but there's always a couple spots that he changes because he hates it."

"Yeah, the solo on the song goes higher towards the end," Stiles says, head bobbing along as Erica’s voice tapers off and the guitar solo starts up, hard and fast.

Everyone in the car starts air guitaring, except Scott, who just pounds the rhythm against the steering wheel. Both Malia and Stiles launch into impressive displays, but Derek is definitely more subtle about it, fingers moving the air, but his elbows are drawn in, not flailing around. He meets Scott's eyes, stomach flipping when Scott gives him another smile, but this time it's softer, more private.

The rest of the car ride goes similarly, but the talking increases as they drill him about information on Moonlight Raid, trying to get as much behind the scenes information as they can. He humors them, because why _not_.

There’s a line to get in when they get to the Clubhouse, but it’s definitely not awkward while they wait. Scott and Stiles make effortless small talk, asking after the store and how Derek has been until they slip into the easy conversation that music always lends them. Scott knows every genre imaginable, loves comparing different styles to each other, likes seeing if any of their music tastes lined up at the same time. 

They’re only four years younger than Derek, so it happens more often than not, but it seems to surprise Scott everytime, eyes widening happily before he dives into that thread of conversation. The time passes quickly as they talk, other people around them getting roped into the conversation until it’s a mess of on going music talk. It’s so stimulating, Derek forgets to be nervous. He doesn’t miss the way Scott stays pressed to his side, shoulders brushing every so often. 

At one point, Derek gestures out with his arm to make a point and Scott counters it, touching him very sincerely, hand sliding along his arm until they’re loosely holding hands. Derek’s heart flutters at the top of his throat, but he doesn’t say anything or pull away, lets Scott thread their fingers together. 

Stiles’ eyes dart from Derek to their hands to Scott, eyebrow quirking in amusement. Derek sees Scott grin in his peripheral, shoulders jumping up in a dismissive shrug, and his stomach collapses into butterflies. When he meets Stiles’ eyes again, Stiles wiggles his eyebrows at them both suggestively. Malia laughs out loud, starts pushing him around until he grabs her around her middle and throws her over his shoulder. 

Scott and Derek hold hands off and on until the club lets them in, letting go to empty their pockets and take off their shoes for the hired security at the door. If this was a year ago, the club would have been far more empty, but now that Moonlight Raid has a local following, it's packed. 

It’s too loud to really talk, but they shout at each other about things occasionally. More than once, Derek catches Scott watching him, half a smile on his lips. Derek wants to ask him what he sees, but he’s too nervous to know the answer, so he just smiles back, revels in the feeling of excitement he gets when Scott grins and ducks his head in embarrassment. 

They don’t hold hands again, because it won’t last long when the set starts, but their Scott keeps touching him; lips brushing his ear when he wants to say something to Derek, shoulders pressed together. Derek feels every point of contact like a beacon, and counts it as a win. 

Then, the set starts, the lights dim, and the crowd starts moving. Derek catches a flash of Scott’s smile before his eyes are drawn to the stage as Erica, Boyd, and Isaac march out. They start with a slow song, but the energy of the crowd is already climbing as Erica starts to sing. 

It’s been awhile since Derek has seen them live, since they’ve been off on tour. He gets backstage snaps from their crew, but it’s nothing like seeing them perform in person. Erica’s magnetism has gotten incredible, all eyes on her as she struts around and draws them in. 

The second song is fast, and when Erica dives in with loud vocals and Isaac screams backup, guitar riffs shredding through the air, the crowd starts jumping and pushing. The mosh pit opens up behind them, and Scott’s gone, off in it instantly. It’s dark, and there are limbs everywhere, it’s hard to see where one body ends and another starts, but Derek catches flashes of Scott when the lights pulse. His face is lit up with a smile, right before he grabs onto Derek’s arm and drags him into the mosh pit. 

At first, it’s just arms shoving him, people in the middle and people around the edges. It’s hard and harsh in a way that Derek is used to, so he loses himself in it, lets the familiar adrenaline course through him. Everything feels overwhelming. The way Erica’s voice caresses the crowd, the voices around him screaming along. Other people’s fists land heavy and pointed, and he hopes he’ll have bruises the next day. It’s too hot, sweat beading his forehead, shirt sticking to him. In no time, his mouth goes sticky and dry.

Him and Scott keep passing each other, and Scott grabs him every time. A hand on his shoulder, his arm, a point of contact to bring them back together. That makes Derek heart thud in his chest harder than any mosh pit or bassline could. 

The crowd gets increasingly rowdy; he loses Scott at one point, but he doesn’t mind, knowing they’ll come back to each other at some point. From there it’s all loud noises and sweat and hard hits that Derek takes happily.

He doesn’t go to shows as much as he used to. It’s like a breath of fresh air, clearing his head. It’s like being swept away with the tide, and he goes willingly. At one point, Stiles is next to him, but then he disappears. There’s crowd surfers, and only after he boosts one over his head, does he realize it’s Malia. They’re all over the place, lost in the venue. 

At one point he sees Scott get dumped near the stage, and run around to jump into the crowd again. He makes a beeline for where he saw Scott enter at, so he can intercept him. They’re across the mosh pit from one another, but Scott doesn’t notice him, so Derek dives in. 

There’s a _thwap_ , and a dull pain blossoms across his face. He’s guessing it was an elbow, and by the way Scott’s frantic expression comes into view, it must have been _Scott’s_ elbow. When Derek looks at his fingers when the lights pulse, he’s pretty sure they’re shining with blood. 

There’s a tug on his elbow, and he’s being led through the crowd, pushed out of it towards the bathrooms. When Scott shoves him in, he goes straight to the mirrors as Scott mutters apologies, ripping paper towels out of the holders and wetting them. There's blood all over Derek's face, some on the front of his shirt and the skin of his hand. 

“I swear, I wasn’t even aiming,” Scott says, frowning. “I am so sorry, fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Derek say, pressing paper towels to his face, hoping to mop up the blood. “I’ve had worse happen to me at a show. I don’t even think it’s broken.”

“You’re probably going to be all swollen and bruised,” Scott says, mouth an unhappy slash. Derek’s heart is pounding hard in his ears as he really _looks_ at Scott. His hair is all over the place, thick and messy, standing on end, curling at his hairline. He’s sweaty, chest heaving, skin flushed; his shirt’s stretched at the collar, thick black ‘x’ that marked their entry into the club smeared over the back of his hand. 

“Having a good time?” Derek asks, as he dips his head in the sink so splash water over his face and wash the blood off. His nose stings, and he can feel that it’s a little swollen already, but it’s not too bad. He’ll live. 

“God yes,” Scott says, sighing happily. He leans against the counter, and flings his head back, eyes fluttering shut. The long column of his throat is making Derek’s mouth tingle, wanting to lavish attention to the skin there; lick and suck and bite Scott’s collarbones until he’s a bruised mess. “They’re amazing live.”

“They really are,” Derek says, blinking out of his trace. "I'm glad you're having fun."

"I am," Scott says, looking at Derek, head dipping down. He's looks larger now, like he's brimming over with excitement and it's filling the space around them. "I'd have fun wherever you took me, though."

“I feel like that’s an exaggeration,” Derek says, with an affectionate scoff. Scott’s closer now than he was before, Derek didn’t even notice him scooting in.

“Not at all,” Scott says, ducking his head to hide a laugh. “As long as I get to stare at your pretty face, I’m good.”

“My pretty blood covered face?” Derek asks, seriously. Scott groans, head dropping miserably. “Blood from my nose, which you elbowed. In a mosh pit. That you dragged me into.”

“I never said I was _good_ at this,” Scott says, with a chuckle, looking through his lashes at Derek. He’s breathtaking, as always, dark eyes and plump mouth, the way his nose hooks slightly; Derek’s nearly overcome with the urge to bite the tip of it, the apple of his cheek. It’s an _affectionate_ feeling, like when something is so cute that it makes you _angry_. It’s the most ridiculous feeling he’s ever experienced while looking at a real life person; Derek has no idea where it’s coming from. 

“Good at what?”

“Impressing people on the first date,” Scott admits, teeth digging into his bottom lip. It’s Derek’s turn to laugh when he says that, because _really_. Derek can’t help but reach up and brush Scott’s mouth with his thumb, making Scott’s smile widen, and his eyelashes flutter in a very pretty way.

“Trust me, I am already impressed,” Derek says, truthfully. Impressed since the first time Scott came into the record store, and grabbed a guitar off the wall and started strumming, singing a Counting Crow’s song out of nowhere under his breath. Impressed since Scott leaned against the counter and started verbally sparring with Cora about Bikini Kill and other assorted Riot Grrrl bands. Impressed since Scott lectured Stiles the whole way through the store about music industry misogyny, and other such gender biases they saw everyday; Stiles started punching him gently in the arm just to make him shut up about it.

Scott is passionate, always, and that impresses Derek more than anything. He’s attracted to that endlessly burning bright light inside of Scott. Scott is a flame, and Derek is drawn to him like a helpless moth. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Scott says, rolling his eyes, but it’s affectionate. He’s so still under Derek’s hand, and Derek doesn’t want to spook him, but he leans in quickly anyway, overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him.

Scott meets his lips with a soft moan, and Derek feels their bodies melt into each other. The kiss is off center, but Derek rights it by sucking Scott’s plump bottom lip into his mouth, nose stinging as they kiss deeply. It doesn’t bother Derek enough to pull away, especially not as Scott slips his hands under Derek’s shirt, skimming his abs, blunt nails digging in above his hips. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek retorts, as they pull away. Scott’s eyes are half-closed, bliss all over his face, mouth already reddening. 

"A little," Scott admits, and dives back in for another hard kiss. “We should --” He pulls back and wiggles his eyebrows, jerking his head towards the bathroom stall. Derek’s stomach drops to somewhere around his feet, starting to feel nervous.

“I don’t, uh, I mean I do,” Derek fumbles, trying to think of the right words. Sex is important to him, and having sex with someone for the first time is important to him. He doesn’t want their first time to be in a grimy bathroom stall at a club during a show. “I mean, I just like to take it slow.”

Scott face goes through a series of emotions, confused and surprised and accepting, until he’s nodding, hand tightening around Derek’s in reassurance.

“No problem,” he says, smiling easily. It helps quell the thundering of Derek’s nervous heart. Scott leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I promise I’m not all raging labido, trying to get off in bathrooms. I can totally do slow.”

Derek nods, trying to will his blush away. His face is hot, spread over his cheeks and to his ears. Scott notices, hand coming up to brush over the hot shell of his ear.

“No pressure,” he says, lowly, his other hand is under Derek’s shirt, and he removes it, squeezing Derek’s hip _over_ his shirt. “That just means that you want me to stick around long enough to be able to take it slow, and that is way better than a blowjob in a bathroom stall.”

“I’m glad _you_ think so,” Derek says, pretending to be disgruntled, but he’s joking. He leans in for a hard kiss, licking into Scott’s mouth and nuzzling their foreheads together when they part. “Yeah, I want you to stick around.”

“Me too,” Scott says, and Derek grins at him, unable to help himself. When they slip out of the bathroom, Scott fusses more over Derek’s nose, and laces their hands together. There’s a warmth in Derek’s chest, and he thinks, _this is going to be good_ , before they dive back into the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kat for the once over.   
> As always, I'm [queerlyalex](queerlyalex.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.


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